


Like Carrier, Like Bratling

by SineadRivka



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers: Beast Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:46:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6566815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SineadRivka/pseuds/SineadRivka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is all because of one ask on Tumblr: http://sineadrivka.tumblr.com/post/142857131171/oh-my-god-mom-you-need-to-write-prowl-and-dinobot</p>
<p>It's not really edited, and I'm tired. I'm not really doing well on the mental level (PTSD is kicking my butt these last two weeks), and I really should have used this evening to do some studying for a test tomorrow morning in Pathology,</p>
    </blockquote>





	Like Carrier, Like Bratling

**Author's Note:**

> This is all because of one ask on Tumblr: http://sineadrivka.tumblr.com/post/142857131171/oh-my-god-mom-you-need-to-write-prowl-and-dinobot
> 
> It's not really edited, and I'm tired. I'm not really doing well on the mental level (PTSD is kicking my butt these last two weeks), and I really should have used this evening to do some studying for a test tomorrow morning in Pathology,

What the younger Maximals didn’t understand about the supposed traitor was never short of phenomenal. Take, for example, what they perceived to be his arrogance. Okay, it was arrogance, but it was _justified_ confidence in his tactical knowledge in warfare that they _weren’t_ onlined with the way that he had been.

But Rhinox had known Dinobot since they were bitlets playing peek-a-boo around the ankles of their progenitors; he knew the mind and the times that they had been onlined in. He held the same warfare programming that Dinobot did. They were older than the rest, with only Rattrap close in age. That little mech was canny, frustratingly so. Just like his carrier. Which, of course, it would stand to reason that they would play the roles of their elders in the time of war. It was _personal_ with Rattrap.

Dinobot was watching their newest arrival, a flier that took after the Camiens in pronoun usage and frametype. He idly wondered if her amica endura was still in a stasis pod in orbit. She was a sharp optic and a sharper mind, but her gravity defied her levity . . . memories of her life on Cybertron or Caminus were hazy, and she was comfortable with a non-vehicle alternate mode.

The raptor turned and paced towards the cargo bays, unsure of what to think about explorers attempting to become warriors. Somewhere along the way, two other forms caught up and joined him, their steps steady. When they entered the bay that had once housed the stasis pods, the largest of the mechs closed and locked the doors, unfolding a table to begin maintenance upon one of his gatlings. “I saw your face in there, Dinobot.” He grinned. “Liked what you saw?”

Groaning, the gangly warrior threw himself backwards onto some of the spare foam padding. “Explorers and scientists, Rhinox! Noncombatants! I don’t have _time_ to train them in usage of weaponry that had been optimized for battle in _vacuum_.”

Rattrap had pulled out a datapad to begin looking up schematics of Airrazor’s weaponry. “She’s not just a lightweight because of flier status; Spark output just won’t _support_ heavy upgrades.” Tossing the pad aside, he flopped onto his back in a mirror of Dinobot’s boneless lounge. “Pops would be shittin’ his skidplate over our bullshit raw material. Featherbag’s a _pacifist_ , jus’ like Stripes.”

“We have the advantage of knowing the generation before us _intimately_ , Rattrap,” Rhinox murmured, optics narrow while inspecting a component before placing it to one side. He turned to face his peers. “We agreed not to distress Tigatron; he’s finally _comfortable_ in his struts again. I know you both have issues with pacifism, but Rattrap, you signed on for this mission.”

“Still! It’d be easier; his reconstruction mirrored Cheetor’s. An’ I was hired as _security_ , not _exploration scientist_. Yanno, because of all that Protoform X pitslag.”

“Oh, let’s _not_ bring up the Twins’ and Bluestreak’s begotten little Pitspawn, _or_ the very real problem of Overlord’s spawn,” Dinobot groaned, throwing an arm over the upper half of his face. “Vermin, you wanted to escape Cybertron as much as I did.”

“We gonna hafta have another talk ’bout ya secrets?” Rattrap’s accent came through with his anger. When Dinobot didn’t rise to his bait, the little spy sat up, mouth open to keep pushing buttons. It snapped shut at the expression he saw there. “Choppuhface?”

“Rhinox, do you have a signal dampener?”

In answer, a small device was tossed into the air. With a hum and a pop, the sounds of nature, of energy generators and solar converters all disappeared. Dinobot levered himself into a sitting position, elbows upon knees to keep him upright. “Carrier wanted me to see what the Name-Thief was up to. So I began that rebellious streak, showing my support for the Neo-Decepticons while publicly and _vocally_ questioning the Council.”

“I remember,” Rhinox murmured. “I got a stern talking-to about being a good example for you.”

“Wheeljack and Ratchet saw too many mechs die by the hands of those whom I was publicly idolizing,” Dinobot murmured, nodding his helm in agreement. He sighed and shrugged. “You _were_ a good example, which it worse when I had to start changing tactics.”

“When ya left home.”

Dinobot bowed his helm. He _hated_ himself for what he had done to his family. Only one knew what was going on at the time.

He wished that he would someday be able to make it up to his Carrier.

“I . . . never . . . wanted . . . to have ever . . . hurt you like that, brother. I wanted to rip my Spark out and give it to you and Jazz in compensation for the words that Prowl and I had scripted. I _never_ wanted you to endure the pain that I _had_ to show the public. Your pain had to be _real_.” He finally found his optics again, but couldn’t raise his line of sight from the floor. “And it was all for naught. We have no way to tell them that Prowl and I were right in our prediction of the eventual breaking of the ’Con treatise.” He finally pulled his gaze upwards, making contact with the red optics of his only sibling. “I’m so sorry.”

Rhinox had expected some raging tantrum about Primal when Dinobot suggested the signal jammer. But as he saw Rattrap launch himself at his older brother in an embrace that tumbled them over the padding and onto the floor on the other side of the bay, he smiled and returned his attention to weapon maintenance. They were brothers, all right; both hated being seen as weak, even among those who had seen them at their lowest. He knew that tears were going to be staining the flooring on the other side of the room. He knew that private, family-only comlinks, maybe even a hardline, was where conversation was taking place. He didn’t _want_ to be part of that conversation.

“I’m taking the field down in a moment; we don’t have the energon to spare to keep it up for long.”

A shadow waved, and he began the countdown. By the time he hit five seconds, the brothers were walking back over. Rattrap had a look on his face that Rhinox hadn’t seen since they were younglings.

Awe. Respect.

But Dinobot refused to see it.

So Rhinox slid the last re-sharpened blade home before deactivating the jamming field and giving the gatling a test-spin. “You know . . . I always admired the way that your family could flip tables.”

Dinobot snorted, trying to school the corner of his mouth that had instantly lifted into a smirk at the mention of his Carrier’s outlet for pure frustration. “Prowl did enjoy theatrics when circumstances necessitated their use.”

The door opened, admitting one very weary-looking young Captain. Rattrap pulled his sidearm and began fiddling with it to hide his face. He didn’t know how much Rhinox trusted the young mech, but with the way that he shut the door and slid down it to sit in such a way that it was pinned, the little spy had some idea that this was quickly becoming the Mature Mech’s Club for Safe Ranting.

“I swear to Primus and everything unholy of Unicron’s get that I will _smack_ the spots right off of Cheetor one day.”

Dinobot crossed the room, dropped into a cross-legged sit in front of Rodimus Prime’s youngest Sparkling, and rested his chin in his palms. “Oh, do tell.”

“Rhinox, Dinobot’s scaring me. Make him stop.”

“Nope. It means he’s accepted you into his social circle,” Rhinox replied absently, flicking a washer at Rattrap to stop the little mechs’ cackling. “Be honored; he won’t be like this in public.”

“And how did _you_ end up in his social circle?” Optimus asked.

“Grew up with the glitch and his little brother.”

“He has blackmail material,” Dinobot added solemnly, pulling out a cube of high-grade from his subspace and cracking it open for a sip before handing it to Primal. “Just like I have on him. Now spill. What is the little brat doing that needs correcting? He’s not even into his _majority_ , and he’s not even the _youngest_ and they sent him out on this trip. I feel that those three racers didn’t have the patience the little fur-face.”

Optimus took a healthy swig of the high-grade, handing it off to Rattrap. “So . . . it starts with Roddy owing some sort of debt to Sunstreaker . . .”


End file.
